


Solstice

by stainedglassflood



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canonical Character Death (mentioned), Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Post-Canon, Sort of? - Freeform, and i still don't have a beta lmao, fluff (but it's sad (but it's hopeful)), i don't even know i just wrote something nice for once, i had tagged this as fluff but on reflection, mental health, not sure how i feel abt this but here you go, the pov shifts a few times, this was meant to be for simon's birthday but i took two months to finish it, thought i'd written something g-rated then remembered i made them swear AGAIN [shrug emoji]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20298790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stainedglassflood/pseuds/stainedglassflood
Summary: Six months after he lost his magic and his mentor and one of his only friends, Simon turns 19.





	Solstice

On Midsummer Night, a child was born.

The cottage was small and secretive, with ivy on its windows and rowan in its garden. The room was ringed with candles, dripping wax over stacks of books and papers. Outside the night was bright with stars.

The birth had been quick and clean, and already the mother was smiling and pressing her forehead gently to her son’s. The father laughed and kissed them both and remarked that already, their saviour smelt of fire.

On Midsummer Night eleven years later, a children’s home near Pendle Hill was burned to the ground.

Simon Snow didn’t grow up believing in magic. He couldn’t see room for it in the bickering and claustrophobia of the house (not ‘_home’_, not really, he _knew_ that) – not even when adults whispered that he _wasn’t quite __normal_, or strange things caught the corner of his eye. Maybe someone could have found secrets in the choking brambles and broken glass of that town, but not him – it was never for _him_.

But now he’d seen a monster. Now there were ashes under nails.

He stared, wordless and wide-eyed, at the man who called himself ‘_Mage_’, and burned his tongue on his tea.

There was magic in the air at Watford. Humming, warming, sparking where it met his own. By the red-gold light of the Crucible and the new term’s bonfire, his new mentor explained that his coming had been told of in the stars.

Everything, it seemed, was turned by sun and moon and stars. He saw men turned to wolves by nightfall, and giants turned to stone by dawn. They sang songs under open sky for the Autumn Equinox, and danced in the glass ballroom for the Winter Solstice.

Late one night before the end of it all, he held hands with a monster (a villain, a boy) and together they called down constellations, close enough to touch.

(He’d still trusted the stars, in those days. He’d still thought that if there was magic in the world, there must be a plan. A _purpose_. Even if that meant there had to be monsters, too.)

(He’d still _believed_.)

As the sun set on Midsummer the year he’d saved the world, Simon Snow knelt before Ebb Petty’s grave.

It was a beautiful grave, deep in the wood. Surrounded by wildflowers and tangles of berries, glowing with magic in the setting sun. Simon wanted to smash it, then work his hands raw carefully piecing it back together again.

(Because it wasn’t _fair_, all this life and awe and gentleness. But it was her.)

He pressed a hand to the smooth lines of her name, and tried not to think. (Of rainy wool and steaming tea and crumbling biscuits. Of the tears she’d want him to shed - _"let it out, __pet,_ _you can’t carry everything on your own"_. Of that night a few days past Midwinter, of pooling blood and zealous whispers and stained glass raining down like fallen stars.)

But he was here to think. To _process_, that new therapist had said. And maybe he couldn’t face all of it yet, but the earth was soft and the birds were still singing and the warm tears on his face reminded him of her.

His friends were waiting when he came slowly out of the wood, the evening turning from gold to red. They each offered a hand. He shook his head and climbed silently into his boyfriend’s car, and they drove.

Baz watched Simon’s jaw tensing and working, his knuckles white on the window, his chest heaving, everything cracking under the weight of his pain. He met Penny’s eyes in the mirror, then reached for the gear stick, and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Simon closed his eyes, gripped his head in his hands, and screamed.

It was a terrible sound. Harsh and raw and wild, and so horribly, heartrendingly _full_. (Of loneliness and loss. Of love and betrayal. Of rage, despair, disbelief.) The wind ripped away the echoes, but the sound didn’t stop.

Simon was barely aware he was making it any more. There were tears pouring down his face he didn’t remember shedding. As his voice dissolved into sobs, he stood up, gripping the top of the windscreen, and breathed in the icy wind.

When Simon’s hands were numb and his face stinging, they came to a stop on a clifftop. This time he accepted a hug, wrapping both his friends in his wings and tucking his head briefly under Baz’s chin. (He saw now they’d been crying too, but they wouldn’t want him to know.)

When they pulled away, Penny squeezed his hand, then let him lead the way down to the beach. Night had fallen, but the moon was bright enough to follow the path. They’d come here when they were young, when it had all still felt like an adventure – _werewolves in London, selkies in Cornwall_. Baz hadn’t been there, and he asked about it, eyes glimmering with curiosity, now there was no hostility to hold him back.

"I’m almost glad I missed it," he admitted softly. "We might have ruined it for each other."

Penny snorted. "I hate to say it, Basil, but I think Simon quite enjoyed your villainous monologues."

"But the punches… less so."

"Well, you know," Simon muttered, "I started it."

Baz frowned, but didn’t say anything.

Simon stripped down to his swimming trunks, stretching, freeing his wings, breathing in the salt. He glowed, even in the cool moonlight. Baz had found thousands of comparisons for him over the years, but the most fitting were always summer: Fawn-coloured freckles, scattered like sparks. Rose-red wings and a thorny tail. Warm bronze hair, somewhere between earth and fire and the setting sun. Eyes clear blue like a steady sea, like the very edge of the sky.

(_If anyone could __touch__ it – _Baz stopped himself. Even for him, that was revoltingly sentimental.)

The ocean felt good on Simon’s skin. It held the cold differently from the air – waking him up, but also wrapping around him, settling: sharp but soft. He grinned, took a breath, and ducked his head underwater.

He opened his eyes for a moment, watching dappled moonlight and ghostly hands and slowly rippling seagrass, listening to the muffled tide and silence. Then he surfaced, spluttering, laughing, shaking hair from his face, and found Penny already next to him, glasses and ring spelled firmly into place.

"Do you think you could use your wings as a sail?" she mused, head titled, then informed him, "We’re going to have to drag Basil in."

Simon made a face. "I mean… It’s pretty cold, isn’t it? And he isn’t exactly – I mean, if he doesn’t think it’s a good idea…"

"Simon, he’s a mage. He can find a way around the cold; he’s not getting out of this. Now, I’m thinking we pretend to find something cursed on the rock in the middle of the bay – thoughts?"

He looked over his shoulder at the rock, then back, and shrugged. "Seems like a lot of work."

"Then how would you do it?"

Simon raised both eyebrows at Penny, then shouted, "Baz! We’re plotting your downfall!"

"Noble of you," Baz called back, hugging his coat pointedly around him. "You might want to try that out of earshot next time."

"Are you really just going to stand on the beach and brood?" Penny asked. "I promise, Basilton, there’s _nothing_ to be afraid of."

Baz made a little indignant noise, but Simon could see him holding back a smile. "We’re not fourteen any more, Bunce. I would have expected more sophisticated mind games from you."

"I’m sorry I’m not so sophisticated that a little cold would be too much for my delicate aristocratic constitution."

"You can’t seriously be insinuating that my condition-"

"_Baz_," Simon said, half growl, half laugh. "Shut up, and get in the sea."

He did.

When they were all giddy from cold and salt and rushing waves and the moon was high overhead, they returned to shore. Penny produced towels, then spelled them all dry anyway, and Baz set about building driftwood into a bonfire.

Simon rubbed his salt-stung eyes with salt-scented fingers and groaned. "Do we have any food?"

Penny dug through her bag, then tossed Simon a packet of blueberry muffins. "Don’t eat them all. And don’t get sand in them."

Something made a snapping noise, and Baz leapt back smoothly as the whole bonfire flared up. His hair flipped perfectly as he looked over his shoulder. "We also have marshmallows, now that there’s a fire going."

"Show-off," Penny said, handing the marshmallows to Simon.

"Pyro," he agreed, pulling Baz down by the hand to sit next to him.

Sometimes Simon still felt like he was dreaming. Like everything for the last year, the whole thing, was just so surreal and impossible that he must have invented it to distract from hunger-induced delirium in one of the homes.

He never felt that way about magic – not any more. That fear seemed to have finally died after he’d seen his shadow come to life and felt a star collapse in his chest. But _this_, turning to Basilton Pitch for comfort after losing his magic and killing his mentor…

Something touched his back lightly, and he looked up. Baz was looking at him side-on, with a glint of concern just visible beneath his ever-guarded expression. (Which was definitely something to work on, but if Baz had started emoting normally at this stage, Simon really wouldn’t have believed he was awake.)

Oh. He was staring. Simon made himself look away, then down at his lap, where he found a half-eaten muffin he’d been ripping apart into crumbs. (That’d be why Baz was worried, then.)

"Are you all right?" Baz sounded like he was trying _not_ to sound like he’d already asked. (Or maybe _that_ was why.)

"Yeah, it’s just…" An empty laugh. "Just everything, you know?" He picked at the muffin wrapper, then before Penny could say something concerned and helpful, he added, "Thanks for today, though."

_(Today_. The afternoon in the coffee shop and the gifts and cards he hadn’t thought to expect already felt like a long time ago. A long way from _here_. He touched the amulet Baz had given him – an amber sun. _To __apologise for breaking your cross_, he’d said, and Simon had kissed the scar on his palm. While Penny rolled her eyes and pretended not to smile.)

"That’s all right. It turns out that your company is actually tolerable as long as I get to set fire to inadvisable volumes of driftwood afterwards." Baz tossed a stick into the flames to underline his point. "We can all sleep a little easier tonight knowing I’ve forced a beachcomber to do something human with his morning."

Simon laughed scratchily – his throat still hurt. "Like what? _Economics_?"

"I wouldn’t know. The vampiric stance on mornings is that they’re best avoided entirely."

Simon glanced at Penny. "I’ve been doing a lot of that lately."

Baz speared a marshmallow and watched the flames curl around it. "If we stay up for another few hours, we can watch the sunrise. Or I could wake you up for it." He pulled the marshmallow out and handed it to Simon still burning, and gave him a _look_ down his nose. "But you won’t manage either if you don’t eat."

Simon blew on the flame half-heartedly, and chewed on his tongue. "Nothing tastes right any more." (_And it’s not… enough_, he wanted to say. _It’s never enough, it will never be enough, I know it will never make me feel whole, so why should I even bother? Why keep throwing things into the void when it only makes the hollowness heavier?_) (His mouth was dry. He didn’t speak.)

Baz hesitated for a split second, then put a hand on his back, rubbing some of the tension away. "I know." His voice was soft. "But even if it’s a chore- even if it feels like torture- you have to."

Simon huffed, turning away, but Baz leaned forward to meet his eyes.

"I _know_. You’re not the only one here with a fucked up relationship with food. Trust me – I _hated_ hunting when I was younger. Sometimes I still do. But denying yourself makes it _worse_. And- and even if you think you want it to be worse… you won’t."

"I’m not trying to make things worse," Simon muttered, then shoved the marshmallow into his mouth just for something to do. "I’m just- _tired_." (Empty. _Nothing_.)

Baz watched, sucking his fangs thoughtfully, as Simon chewed. The marshmallow was sticky and smoky and so sweet it burnt, but he swallowed. And it didn’t make anything worse. And it almost tasted like his magic.

His eyes stung, and he ducked his head, blinking.

"Of course you’re tired," Penny said. "You have every right to be tired, Simon. You saved the world."

Simon huffed and clawed both hands into his hair. "Really? _Still_? So I- I spend years destroying it, and only realise what I was doing at the last _fucking_ moment – and, by the way, that’s when the only one who’s ever really had a chance of helping has already been driven mad by the utter _shitstorm_ I’ve caused, and I can’t save him _or_\- or the people he’s hurt – and you think that counts as _saving the world_?"

"Yes, I do." Penny was looking at him very intently. Eyes wide, brows knitted. She reached up and pulled one of his hands gently out of his hair. "You did the best anyone could hope for with what you were given, and you’ve spent more than enough time beating yourself up for not being perfect. And I know you do that because you’re selfless and idealistic and always want to fix everything, but that perfect hero you’re imagining _cannot_ exist. Everything has a price, magic especially. Really, we’re all to blame for not seeing it sooner."

Simon turned her hand over in his and looked at his knees. "I made things _worse_, Penny."

"You have saved literally hundreds of lives from dozens of threats. The Humdrum was only ever a fraction of the problem. And honestly, the dead spots seem like a fair price for most of what you’ve done."

"A whole city is a fair price for blowing up some flying monkeys and a chimaera?"

"Well, I certainly appreciated it," Baz said. "And it’s not like the _cities_ got blown up."

Simon’s head was buzzing. Their eyes burned on his skin. "People died."

"That wasn’t _your_ fault. That was _him."_ Baz took in a breath through his teeth, then started again, without anger. "_You_ were – _are_ – better and kinder than anyone could have expected. You tried to save everyone, whether they deserved it or not." He raised a hand and lightly touched Simon’s cheek. His voice was soft, and a little shaky. "So show yourself the same kindness. Let us help you. Whether you think you deserve it or not."

Simon stared at Baz for a few moments, chewing his lip, then closed his eyes and let out a breath. He pulled both his friends closer, curling into their arms so he could listen to their heartbeats. (Penny’s bold and sure and steady, Baz’s slow and soft like the waves, his own rabbit-like and shuddering but gradually settling down.) Penny struggled free after a few moments – he’d been squashing her glasses – then, when she’d adjusted them, settled back next to Simon and handed him another muffin with a stern look and a gentle finality.

Simon fell asleep there, between his best friend and his boyfriend, and the fire curled down into ashes, sending soft curls of smoke to brush through his salt-tangled hair. Penelope’s eyes closed next, her head tucking into Simon’s shoulder, then Baz, his head falling on top of Simon’s. The three felt safe together, safe enough to sleep through the sunrise they’d planned to watch, through the cries of the seals and seabirds that announced it, through almost until noon, when they awoke with stiff necks and numb fingers and grumbling smiles.

But the sun rose that morning after Midsummer, though none of them saw it. And though none would dare say it or wish for it yet, somewhere deep in the heart of that lost, scarred, noble boy, embers were sparking back to life.


End file.
